Ask Me Again
by ImThatTypeOfGirl
Summary: How many times will Wheatley have to ask Chell before she says the three words he so desperately longs to hear? Post events of Portal 2, city-life AU. Chelley, mostly romantic fluff. One-shot.


**A/N: Hi there! Yes, I know: another Portal story! Woo! This one is another city-life AU, mostly romantic fluff cause I was feeling in the mood :D Chelley, post events of Portal 2 (but, again, in an AU form). Really hope you enjoy, please leave a comment to let me know what you think! xx**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Portal nor its characters, all rights belong to Valve.  
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**PORTAL 2:**

**Ask Me Again**

When he asked the first time she stayed silent. He knew she could talk again, tell him what he so desperately longed to hear. But she herself did not know, not yet. What was the strange rush of emotions she felt whenever she saw his puppy-dog face, or his glasses fall down his nose when he'd been working at the computer too long, or when he'd push his dark blonde hair out of his eyes when he was reading? The simplest of things - unimportant, really, yet they tugged at her heart strings as they were the most moving and romantic gestures she'd ever seen.

And so, the first time he asked, she never said a word.

The second time they were in the kitchen. She was washing the dishes, the soothing circular motion of the brush against the soapy plates relaxing her usually stressful life. Looking after an adorable moron who had so suddenly stumbled into her challenging existence was hard enough without having the added work she did down at the lab, and then the extra presentation for the fair at the weekend. She may have loved science like anyone would love their partner, but sometimes she utterly couldn't stand its complications. Sometimes, it was good to have someone as simple as Wheatley around.

He was standing to her left, gently taking the clean dishes from her hands and drying them with a towel. She stopped washing them when she felt his hand on her arm. Electricity crackled underneath the surface of her skin and she felt it like fire. Blushing, she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

"Do you?"

His voice was quiet and squeaky, and she almost laughed. But that would be unkind, after all, this was a huge moment for the socially-awkward twenty-four-year-old and she wouldn't want to ruin it. She smiled; her head bowed, and moved away from him, her arm feeling cold after his warm fingers had grasped it. He stared after her, blinking in confusion.

The third time they were at the park. It was a warm day and the sky was blue and cloudless; they walked beneath the trees as they scattered browning leaves across the pavement. He asked several times and it was hard to ignore his pleading tones. The strange feeling in her chest…she didn't know what it was. Of course she had feelings for Wheatley - but this? This was unfathomable. She was always so confident in everything she did, but what was happening between them was completely alien to her. What was she to make of all of this? It was so difficult to get a grip on how she felt, what to do. However, she was determined to figure it out.

The fourth time he took her out to dinner, in her favourite French restaurant on the softly-lit boulevard across from her flat. The trees were entangled with tiny golden lights, the cobbles glowing a pale yellow in the night. The cafes and shops were all closing up by the time they were walking down the street after the meal. He fidgeted nervously, fingers playing at the corners of his blue hoodie. When he asked this time, he caught her smile, the one that knocked him flat on his back and left him out of breath. They didn't speak until they got back home.

The fifth time they were at her apartment and Wheatley was feeling lucky. She had been particularly warm toward him that morning – she'd even stole a kiss when he was having breakfast before she went out to work that day. He prepared a candle-lit dinner and scattered rose petals from the door of the apartment to the table. He wasn't exactly a brilliant chef, so made his famous vegetarian spaghetti bolognaise – her favourite. He was more excited than nervous when she walked through the door that evening, a ruffled white dress hanging about her knees, her much-loved orange leather jacket slung over her shoulder. But when she followed the rose petals on her cream carpet to the living room, she found her live-in boyfriend desperately trying to put out a flaming bouquet of flowers with half a glass of champagne.

The sixth time went a little better. She was getting to grips on how she felt, on what he was actually asking her. He got a kiss that time, but not a definite response. To be completely honest, she had to figure out exactly what she was going to say before she answered his question. The feelings, memories, bond they shared…it was so deep and caring and it utterly overwhelmed her. She knew why she was holding back. She had finally worked it out.

She was scared.

She was afraid he'd abandon her again – or worse. She still had scars across her thigh and lower back from that fall. Did he remember? She'd forgiven him a long time ago for it. When he'd left the institution, he expected to be greeted with an empty parking lot. Instead, it was her friendly face waiting to take him to his flat. Whenever they spoke of the institution, they never called it by name. It was SPACE, the vast emptiness where he was alone with his thoughts. Although, she _had _put him there in the first place.

They'd been good friends a while back, but when his jealous ex-girlfriend can tried to attack them on an afternoon out he'd been badly injured and she had been jailed for assault. When he came around a few weeks later he just wasn't the same. Maybe it was his terrifying experience, or being confused and afraid when he awoke and she wasn't there beside him. She was actually away helping to build a case against his ex for their lawyer, but perhaps he blamed her for not being there to tell him everything was going to be okay.

He became angry, sensitive to the tiniest of remarks. Underneath he was still the same: nervous, sweet, bouncy, and a little slow. But that side of him was buried so deep she couldn't find it when she searched. He would lash out at her, furious, cussing every swearword known to man, then withdraw and become unsociable and dejected. She didn't know what to do.

He didn't blame her for admitting him to the institution. He hated SPACE, of course he did, but when they let him go he was a changed man. By then she had well and truly forgiven him for everything, and in the end they moved in together. But now things were complicated again – but not for the same reason as before. Far from it.

He didn't have to ask her a seventh time. She marched into his office one morning, her slender form followed by the eyes of every single worker on the floor. Even people waiting for the lift didn't notice when it clunked to a stop at their landing. They allowed it to move away again, the people inside oblivious to what was happening. The black-haired woman stormed over to Wheatley's desk, where he was sitting staring at her, dumbfounded by her apparent wrath. What could he possibly have done to upset her this time?

When she got closer he tried to ask her what he'd got so wrong that it made her this angry, standing up from his little blue-backed desk chair with shaking knees - but she wouldn't let him. She quickly silenced his nervous babbling with a beautiful and passionate kiss, pushing him back against the chair so it rolled across the floor and slammed against the wall of the grey office cubicle. Perched on his lap, she locked her fingers in his floppy blonde locks and pulled him all the way in. His cerulean eyes widened in surprise, an embarrassed flush blossoming across his cheeks as he realised what she was doing. An internal struggle failed and he gave up trying to stop her, letting his lids droop, his fingers ghosting along her collarbones and up the sides of her neck. His fellow workers in the office glanced away, mildly embarrassed.

When they broke apart, they didn't go far. She had her forehead pressed against his, her breath warm on his lips. She was smiling a dazzling smile and he felt vaguely dizzy. Was she ever this romantic with him? He was always the one trailing after her, begging her to spend some of her precious time with him. Sure, they were dating, but it was more like a clash of opposites than a perfect match.

"Yes," she laughed, finally answering his incessant questions. She snatched another quick kiss before continuing. "Of course I do. I love you, Wheatley."

She expected his panicky stutter to return, or some sort of apprehension to creep into his voice, but it was low and steady. She was so used to his jittery jabbering she was shocked to hear him sound so calm.

"I knew you were saying yes every time – in your own way." He was smiling, his eyes crinkling up at the sides. "I just wanted you to say it to me; I wanted to believe you meant it."

She kissed him again, pressing her body tightly up against his, one hand slipping from his hair down to the collar of his shirt and drawing him closer. Several of the people who'd lingered to watch her rare display of affection coughed uncomfortably and discreetly moved out of the couple's way, muttering excuses like 'Oh! Jerry! Yes - that report, sorry, handing it in right this minute!' and 'What's that Pete? The photocopier's jammed again? Be right there!" And soon the floor was very empty of the people who had hidden themselves away in an attempt to give the pair some privacy. Wheatley, after all, was a rather edgy fellow, and it was nice he had someone in his life. No-one wanted to ruin it for him.

"Everyone's gone," she observed, laying her head against his chest and playing with his dark blue tie. "Was I a little too forward?"

"No – no!" the nervousness had slipped back into his voice. "You were fine! Honest…you were, well, perfect."

She looked up at him with her stormy grey eyes. "You think I'm perfect?"

He blushed furiously and squeezed her shoulders. "Well, yeah."

When Wheatley left the office that day it had returned to normal. His girlfriend had left earlier in the day and several of his colleagues had congratulated him on the relationship, to which he had mumbled an incoherent response, thick with embarrassment. He picked up a coffee on the way back to her apartment, his footsteps light with joy. The sun was setting across the city, lighting the sky in blurry shades of blood red and soft orange. When he reached her door his hand didn't even hesitate at the knob.

"I'm back!" he called, closing the door behind him and carrying his coffee through to the living room. The TV buzzed quietly in the background, a violent crime drama flickering across the screen. Scented candles were littered across the dining table and up and down the bookcase on the far wall, the main lights turned down low so the cream wallpaper glowed golden in the candlelight. On the couch, a ruffled black ponytail stuck out from under a feathery red blanket, which rose and fell to the muffled sounds of gentle breathing.

Wheatley smiled gently and sat his coffee down on the table, lifting his girlfriend from the couch and carrying her sleeping from through to their bedroom. Slipping her under the covers, he quickly changed out of his work clothes and joined her in the cocoon of warm bedcovers and floppy limbs. They snuggled close together; breathing soft and slow as they drifted off, dreams and feelings mixing like rainwater in the river.

He asked her six times, asked her six times if she loved him.

Had he the confidence to ask a seventh, there wouldn't be a ring box still sitting in the bottom of his tie drawer.


End file.
